


Evermore

by devilcuriosity



Category: Beauty and the Beast (1991), Beauty and the Beast (2017), Beauty and the Beast - All Media Types, La Belle et la Bête | Beauty and the Beast
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-27
Updated: 2017-03-27
Packaged: 2018-10-11 17:30:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10470333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devilcuriosity/pseuds/devilcuriosity
Summary: Belle muses on the forlorn longing and beautiful melancholy of her love, Beast. In this momentary exploration of character, she dwells and marvels at the wondrous creature who has befallen her. Be warned: dreaminess ensues.





	

_That time of year thou mayst in me behold_  
_When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang_  
_Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,_  
_Bare ruin’d choirs, where late the sweet birds sang._

__

_In me thou see’st the twilight of such day_  
_As after sunset fadeth in the west;_  
_Which by and by black night doth take away,_  
_Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest._

__

_In me thou see’st the glowing of such fire,_  
_That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,_  
_As the death-bed whereon it must expire,_  
_Consum’d with that which it was nourish’d by._

_This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong,  
To love that well which thou must leave ere long._

**Sonnet #73  
William Shakespeare**

* * *

____

I sense him in the room, meandering like a ghost behind the drapery, watching from the shadows. A creature long accustomed to the solitude of darkness, he moves under its protection with wary deliberation. He doesn’t think I know he’s there, his lingering gaze making the hair on my skin prickle with renewed sensation, my heart thumping quick, my breath caught short. He marvels at the way I hold my books and peer into them, he studies the comprehension on my face as I absorb the miscellanea, and he refrains from interrupting my reverie by keeping his distance. While he is intrigued, he is also scared. He is afraid of what I represent and ultimately, of how he affects me.

____

“I wonder if she would do it again,” I say, welcoming him into my thoughts, beckoning him to come out of the darkness and join me in the light of this beautiful day. He makes his way over slowly, his bright eyes apprehensive but interested, his newly ignited desire for company and conversation warring with his prolonged need for self-preservation. “Heloise, I mean,” I continue with a smile, beckoning him closer. “I wonder if she would fall in love again despite what happened to her.” He sways as he hovers above me, this towering silhouette of fables, his lovely gaze downcast in thought.

____

“She would,” he says simply, his voice as rich and layered as the plum velvet he dons this afternoon. “For all Abelard lost, Heloise lost more, but her heart was free and she had the courage to follow it, consequences be damned. She had but one life and she lived it.” He looks at me tenderly, the corners of his fanged mouth bending upward into the faintest hint of a smile. Then he looks out the window and into the sky. He is dazzling in the way of sunlight, the colors of his beastly visage shining amber, gold and fawn. “To know such love,” he says dreamily, the cerulean of his eyes burning bright like the base of a flame, “what a thing to behold.” The clouds shift and darkness drapes over him once more as he finds me. “Though she might say differently if we could speak with her now.” He nods away his thoughts on the historical lovers. “How are you enjoying all of this?” He looks around uncertainly at the books in his grand library, his gaze to the floor, afraid there might be some displeasure amidst the grandeur.

____

“It’s wonderful,” I beam at him and then to all of the spines that would take a glorious lifetime to read. I feel my eyes glisten with emotion as I think of what this room represents for him and now, for me. He steals a glance at me as I turn into my thoughts. “There won’t ever be a day when I stop marveling at your beautiful things,” I conclude with a smile, my eyes shining into his own for a fleeting moment before he looks away, shied by my gratitude.

____

He grunts in approval a second later. “You know the rule of the house,” he says somewhat officially, straightening himself on his haunches, gathering his wits, “whatever you marvel at is yours.” He raises a brow in playful lightness, his calculated facade melting away in that second to reveal his unabashed pleasure at creating happiness for another. I know the weight of those simple words, and their depth. He is most fond of this ornate library and the texts herein. This room represents his fantasies and his anguish, a place he comes to for solace and affirmation. Here is where he can be his truest self, his strongest self, in the pages of his beloved authors and their tapestry of words. If I were him, I think, I would love this room as much as he does, for the words of my authors would be my greatest possession and my sweetest delight. This is a most precious gift he gives me, and I accept it heavily.

____

“Thank you,” I say as I rise and take his hands into my own, feeling him stiffen and then relax as the sensation of touch spreads. His long clawed thumbs brush my palms in smooth, warm strokes. The blush forms on my face as I feel the depth of his blue gaze bear into my spirit. He sees himself there but doesn’t believe it, at least not yet. I want so much to reach out and touch that chimerical face but it would startle him, and I would do anything to have him feel safe around me. My naive heart wonders if he has looked at anyone else the way he looks at me now, the spark of wonder flashing in his eyes before leaving altogether. We beam at each other, unsure of where to steer next and yet, reveling in the newfound vibrancy of our connection that is amplified in moments like these.

____

“Love is many things,” I say thoughtfully as we make our descent to the main floor sometime later, my arm entwined around his, his warmth thawing out my chills. I think of all the letters and poems in the library and how he must have read the entirety of all that was written on the very essence of such a topic. But it’s simpler than all of that, I think to myself before iterating the sentiment aloud. “There are no confines, no precedence. There is no one way to love. It manifests in different forms for each of us. If we should be so lucky to find it with another, we should seize the moment.” He is a silent monolith beside me, his heart beats calmly and steadily, his eyes focused on the ground before us. He ponders my words and absorb their possibility, thoughtfulness playing on his fine features. I am of course, not without my motives. With the help of Abelard and Heloise I segue into this topic of conversation, allowing for him to see beyond his own reservations.

____

“I’ve never thought of it that way before,” he says. A pause. “You read all of these tragic romances after a time and believe that is precisely the way to love.” His chuckle comes more as a purring growl but I take the meaning all the same.

____

“Though I’m one to talk.” I look at him from the corners of my eyes. “My reference material has been solely derived from one Romeo and Juliet.”

____

He laughs heartily and the booming sensation reverberates through me like a great quake, making me laugh as it tickles my nerves. We both catch a continual fit of giggles all the way down the stairs before sighing in comfortable laziness. “I’m famished,” I say as my stomach growls in rebellion.

____

“Come,” he says as his hand closes around mine protectively. “Mrs. Potts has prepared something special for us tonight.”

____

The next morning he sits in his stone gazebo of white roses. I pick my way toward him, beneath the tangled vines crunching under my step, and stop short of myself for fear of ruining an otherwise perfect mythical tapestry. There he rests beneath the curving vines of flora, a jarringly handsome beast crafted in the mocking likeness of some cruel and mischievous deity of ages past. His horns are curled angrily in the fashion of Ares, his eyes are blessed with a beauty akin to Aphrodite, his stature is molded by the brutishness of the Minotaur. Together they create the majestic sight before me, his dark form humped over the small book in his hands. He dons a cape made of heavy velvet and adorned with silver starbursts against a rich indigo sky. The white of freshly fallen snow and pale cream roses bring out his hues in a shock of color.

____

“Good morning,” I break my spell dispassionately. He looks up and closes the book shut, smiling as he finds my eyes. I seat myself beside him and attempt a look at the book in his hands.

____

“Sonnets,” he mutters somewhat incoherently. I look at him and smile wide, catching wind.

____

“Love sonnets, I think,” I say teasingly, judging from the cover. I know this book well for I’ve read it many times myself. “Do you have a favorite?”

____

“Sonnet seventy-three,” he says easily. “Never has anyone put such fine words to the essence of growing old in love and death.” That melancholy glint flashes in his eyes as he looks over at the birds who have landed on a nearby vine. In this moment he seems infinitely older than he is, the long years of residing in unwanted seclusion weighing down on his lovely face. “I think less of this curse with each passing day, you know,” he says as he leans into me and away again, waving a clawed hand nonchalantly. “It is not as bad as you would think. Now that you’re here, I don’t mind it much at all actually.” He looks sideways at me and smiles, the sadness leaving his eyes, replaced with an appreciative wisdom.

____

I take his palm into my own and rest our joined hands on my lap. “Wherever you are is where I’ll be, curse or no,” I say with wistful affection. I lean in closer to him and he drapes his thick arm over me, allowing me to fit into the curve of his side, warming me to the very core. All around us the birdsong rises as the sun shines out from under the clouds and melts away the snow. My gaze fixes on a corner of his shimmering cape of starbursts and night sky. I think of how his beastly countenance is no more a curse than another form of being and yet, the outside world would choose to forget this lonely creature of dreams while he goes on residing in his gilded edifice. Despite his long years of darkness, he can still sit here and take pleasure in my company, he can give himself over to me in the hopes that I will accept him for himself at present and nothing more. He can pull back the curtains and bring me into his room of tales, and share his love of all that is wondrous beside me. Here is a generous and feeling soul, filled with intent and yearning. I feel the sting of tears threaten to fall from my eyes as I fold into his melancholy heart in this moment of tenderness between us.

____

I see the form of his love materialize when we walk the white gardens in the morning and the grand halls at evenfall. He leads me down the winding paths of his former life, fascinated by the inevitable state of abandonment that follows in the wake of quietus and heartbreak. The loss of his mother, the loss of his innocence. I tell him of my sorrows, the loss of my own mother. Our kindred spirits find each other, mingled in forlorn longing, seeking union amidst our habitual solitude. We work to find a way to each other without sacrificing the pieces of ourselves we have guarded so dearly all these years. We have time, I think, to gradually unfasten our armor and come together bare. We have time to find our way to each other, renewed and whole again. This is our great love, after all.

____

**Author's Note:**

> My feels. After seeing the movie a few times I couldn’t stop dwelling on how gorgeously Dan Stevens interpreted Beast. His solitude and longing most especially. His Beast found solace in the literary world of his books as it was his way to escape from the confines of his physical seclusion. The notion is medieval, gothic, romantic. And since Beast and I probably share the same affinity for beloved romantic icons of old, I wanted to write the bits and pieces in my head into something cohesive-ish.
> 
> Here they're in the time after he rescues her from the wolves and before she leaves him to save Maurice. This is more an exploration of moments from Belle’s perspective than an actual story, my Belle being more learned and dynamic, matching Beast thought for thought. I enjoy the idea of their complimentary equality. They work beautifully together without making a fuss about it. A powerful love indeed.
> 
> I thought the use of Sonnet #73 was appropriately romantic as it deals with ageing and in so many ways, love. To love and grow old together, to then die together. While Beast seems relatively young, he’s an old soul by way of his curse. His innocence and youth were gone with it. In his heart he knows Belle would love him to the end and vice versa, hence the sentiments of Evermore.
> 
> Thanks for reading.


End file.
